Monica

My friend Monica died today. I didn't know how serious her condition was.

She was my childhood friend, we went to church together and junior high and high school. She was always smiling. She taught me how to set the volleyball, and she was really good at it, smooth as can be.

I remember kids in junior high being mean to her. I know their names, they're on facebook. I want to write them now and chew them out. I don't care if you were 12, you were mean, and she never gave it back to you. She was kind, she was happy. She was probably happier than they were. I'm mad at them today. I'm mad that they get to be parents when she doesn't.

I 'm crying that she had to leave her babies. She wrote me last year after Otto that she had lost a little girl, and when I asked her what happened, she said it was because of cancer. And being in the state I was, I didn't look into further, just looked at the picture of she and her husband and little boy and thought she looked so happy. She lost her little girl, and now she had to leave her family.

Already having a day of "what does it all mean?", this pushes it further. Her little boy's name is Kai. I have another friend who's little boy died when he was 10, and his name was Cai also. I know someone who feels the pain of never meeting her mother, who gave her up for adoption, and now in her 40's she feels this so deeply. And she feels my pain, the pain of losing my son, my little one.

I feel like we are just here, breathing, and that's all I know. All I know is to breathe and feel the earth, and I feel something of love in that, something of God, but are we here just to be? Like the grass? Like the trees? And then to die? Am I making it so much more complicated than that? It is so hard to leave love. And I know, love never dies, love always is, but the act of giving love is not the same, the act of receiving, is not as easy.

My friend, I send you love, I send you peace, you are so brave. I send love to your son, to your husband who is being so brave right now. I send him so many angels to hold him up.

And I wish you joy in the moments when you finally get to hold your baby girl, and be with her as spirits together, in pure love. I love you.

Flowers

There is a plant outside that I put in the ground last year, and I waited a little too long to plant it and it kind of shriveled, and didn't do too well through the summer and then REALLy didn't look good with all the frost this winter. It died. It looked thoroughly dead.

It was a clematis, a pretty climbing vine, and I was bummed because it was twenty bucks and I wanted to see it bloom on the trellis.

And this spring, without us even noticing, it was green and climbing up the pole, it had come back, regenerated.

So nice to get a surprise, a good surprise. Its broad pink flowers are all over the place now. Sometimes things grow better when you don't obsess over them.

There are second chances and there is new life. And you never know where it will pop up, and you can't predict it, or expect it really.

That plant is full of good future stories for us.

And so, now, after 12 weeks, I can finally include our little Lima Bean in this blog. It's been hard to not write about her ( I call her her because I need a personal name, not it, and who knows?) so I just haven't written much.

We have a new baby growing, due around Thanksgiving. I feel Otto and I feel her, I take walks with two invisible children. They are always with me. I weep for the loss of Otto, I celebrate little fingers and toes growing, I talk to them both. I walk the fine balance of life.

Hello Baby

Thank you for being so close. 

Thank you for the sweet sounds you made with your mouth when I was holding you for the first time, little suckling sounds.

Thank you for nuzzling into me when I held you.

All of these things stay with me, and I will always have them.

Sometimes my life seems so long when I think of how much time there is left without you.  So long for you to not be here as my son, my baby, a grown man. 

I heard an interview with John Mellencamp today and he said when he was born he had a disease or problem that usually killed the babies who had it, and they operated on him, at the neck, which usually caused paralyzation from the incision down.  But somehow, he was fine, had a normal childhood and life.

And I listened to him singing and wondered what you would have been like in your life, what you would have done with it if you had the chance. Would you be a songwriter? Would you write poetry? This baby almost died, but didn't and grew up to sing for people. I wish I could know what you would have been like.

And I am still here. And my life is still here, and I should cherish it.

Hello my darling boy.  Thank you for being close to me.  With the new life of spring, I find myself missing you so much, even as I feel all the hope of blossoms and little green leaves all around us.  

Last night when I was crying, you reminded me that I can hold you now too. So I closed my eyes and put my hands on my heart and belly, and imagined you there.  Your spirit is here, and I can hold you any time. Thank you for reminding me.

Last night Bo cut his foot and had to get stitches.  It was very hard to go to the vet - where they tell  us what they'll do to our little dog, needles and how much time we need to leave him there, and I always sob when I leave because it puts us right back in the hospital with you.  I look at other people looking distraught in the vet's office and I think, "well, I lost my BABY!" that's different than a dog. 

Still, I was so glad to get him back and we let him sleep in bed with us because he was so disoriented, and because I needed to cuddle with him.  He's warm.

Yesterday you turned 7 months old. You'd be sitting up now and smiling and giving so much love.  It's hard to know that, and it's beautiful too in some way. Happy 7 months birthday my darling boy. I miss you so much.

Mama

Safe Place

One of the safest memories I have is sleeping outside with my Dad and sisters.  We're in heavy black cotton sleeping bags with pictures of deer with antlers on the inside, a red background. We're under the stars, we can hear the night, the trees creaking, animals walking in the woods, frogs, crickets, we can hear the creek.  The sky seems to breathe on me like a mother watching over, and I know my dad is there to protect us. I have no fear of the night.  I feel like I am cradled and warm, laying on GOD.

I don't like the sound of a room. There's a high pitch to it that I remember as a toddler, even before computers were always on and before cell phone signals, something about containing a space in walls? It's a dead sound.

There is a part of me that always misses hearing the outside, that is frightened by such unnatural silence plus refrigerator hum.  Open a window, and I feel much better.

I talked to you, Otto under a big oak tree this morning.  I was hitting the ball for Bo because he was distraught from being left outside as we went to our BNI meeting at 7am! Two hours outside by himself, this was a major deal to get through. So we ran it out. (something people should do as well after stressful situations).  

And this massive oak, with a big roundish trunk and branches swirling in a big globe around it, was listening to me.  And he heard me. (I think this one is male).  And I started to sob to feel that the earth was so tender and loving, my grief for your welled up and I felt it hard. 

To think that the same forces that make that tree wind its roots through the earth and creates the graceful pattern of its branches toward the sky, are the same forces that create our lives, the paths, the openings and closings.  Your branch was short, and it will have no branches off of it that keep going.  Who knows why. But it feels easier to know that there are forces that bind us all together, that have some sense, some beauty, we are all subject to them, every cell in our body. 

I just miss you so much. And I love you so much. I know you are there but it's harder to feel when I have the pain. I'll have to see you in the little dandelions blooming all over the grass.

This morning we got up at 6 which is really 5, and went to a networking meeting. We saw the moonset over the north western hills, big and orange. I've never seen a big moonset like that in the early morning. It was beautiful and eery. Like a sign.  Of beginnings and endings being so close together, the moonset and sunrise within minutes of each other.

happy full moon.

I'm not crying much these last few days. I feel a little strange about that. To let love for you shift from so much pain to a lighter one, a smile, then anger and disappointment, and love for your baby hands and holding you. It all comes around and around, all the cycles. I am glad for sunny days when they come.

I look at pictures of myself holding you so I can see me being a mom. Being your mom. It just seems so good, too good to be true, an ancient universe that once was that is a story now.  I know it wasn't that long ago, but it just is soo good was sooo  hard afterwards for so long, that it's all out of dimension.

But my heart is a mama's heart, even though most people can't see you. And they don't know. It doesn't matter.

I sang your hummingbird song at the show, and cried, and everyone cried with me.  They all heard about you and longed for you. I missed you as I went up to play, remembered that tear I cried as I finished the last note of the last show before I took a break for the 3rd trimester, not knowing when I'd come back. That tear seems so silly now. You are so much better than a stage. But I still love singing, I still love the smell of a bar. Isn't that funny? Stale beer on the floor and the old walls hinting of past cigarettes. It's the smell of my songs. 

Well, Otto, I know you have a sense of humor, that you are with me on sad days and happy days, I miss you so much. 

I love you.

Mom

I am quiet. I haven't had as much to say lately. But you are always with me. Looked at pictures of you all weekend with Julianne. We cried for you and kissed your photos. We wondered why and sent love.

I am right here. Not knowing if I should hope or just not think. I am here, on this March Monday, the night has come, the winds are strong outside and it's cold. Its' rained a lot. You knew only summer and heat while you were here. You didn't know winter.

I know there are joyful times ahead. I accept my sadness. I don't feel like hoping right now. I want to sit and write small thoughts and meditate in front of candles and accept this cold winter wind. There are a few flowers, there are bulbs of gladiolas and dahlias to plant that your dad helped me pick out from the nursery this weekend.

That gives me hope. That we stood in front of the stand of bulbs and pointed to our favorite colors, and took them home for planting.